


An Unfinished Guide to (Only Slightly and Partially Made Up) Traditions of Finneral by Bern the Younger

by StrikerStiles



Category: The Winnowing Flame Trilogy - Jen Williams
Genre: 4+1 thing, Canon Compliant, Crack Treated Seriously, Crack and Angst, Cultural Differences, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, Mutual Pining, bern is whipped, lying to your crush about your traditions can be a love language, made up traditions of finneral
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:47:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27657727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrikerStiles/pseuds/StrikerStiles
Summary: Four things thattotally, most definitely, very casuallyhappen in Finneral and one thing Aldasaircasuallydoesall the time.
Relationships: Bern Finnkeeper the Younger/Aldasair Eskt
Comments: 3
Kudos: 3





	An Unfinished Guide to (Only Slightly and Partially Made Up) Traditions of Finneral by Bern the Younger

**Author's Note:**

> All Finneral traditions mentioned here are made up by me. Does Bern always wear his hair in braids in the books? No. Am I thinking of Vikings? Possible. Does this change serve any purpose other than having Aldasair play with his hair? Nope.
> 
> This story takes place between Bern repairing the tower for Aldasair and the hatching of war beasts, I think, but in a different more relaxed version of events. I don't know. The inspiration for this was an AmazingPhil awkward story where a boy tried to make Phil kiss him by saying under hypnosis he wouldn't know what was done to him at all. I believe that tells you everything you need to know about how seriously I considered stuff like the time period.

_**1\. Casual hand holding is a thing in Finneral** _

It starts with a rather innocent one. It can't even be considered a lie, Bern tells himself. Not entirely. There is quite some truth in it, albeit a bit modified. No one can call him a liar for it.

“In Finneral we always hold hands,” he says with, hopefully, a straight face. “You see, human eyes are not great in blizzards and it's a very easy way to hold on to each other. Well, literally.”

Aldasair blinks at him.

It's not even a lie. His parents used to just take his hand when he was small and it was still acceptable. Except no one would guide a grown person by their hand in Finneral, not unless that person agreed to be your “companion” in some sense of the word. Everyone else would just use a more practical solution like ropes or colored flags. But Aldasair doesn't need to know that, because they are not in Finneral and there is no one to see or understand the meaning of their joined hands here other than Bern's own ridiculous heart.

“You don't have to, of course,” he adds after a couple of minutes gone without a word. “There are other ways-”

Aldasair silently reaches for his hand and holds his fingers very gently, like he thinks he can squish them if he's not very careful. And that might be true but Bern wouldn't care if all of his fingers broke right on the spot. Aldasair is wearing a pair of leather gloves with delicate golden embroidery on them. Bern wonders if they are his or were made for another a long time ago. His hands are cold even through the leather and whatever undoubtedly ridiculously luxurious and expensive lining they have; it seeps into his own. He doesn't care how cold they are or how they are making his own colder. He just makes a mental note about gloves, possibly fur lined, more fitting for doing things rather than sitting pretty on a horse. More fitting for someone loved rather than admired from a distance.

“I can't lose you,” Aldasair says in an unbelievably sincere way and Bern's heart starts working double time to keep both their hands warm. A fine wrinkle mars the smooth expense of Aldasair's forehead before he adds: “It would look as if we do not care for our guests.”

“Of course.” He hopes his voice doesn't betray how out of breath he suddenly is. “That's very-considerate of you.”

Aldasair nods shortly, a lock of hair falling to hide his left eye. “I'll lead the way, because your- human eyes.” Is it a shortcoming of Bern's human eyes or is his face not as pale as it was before?

“Right,” he says, feeling like laughing hysterically all of a sudden, “my human eyes. Thank you.”

That part wasn't a lie either. His human eyes burn and leak under the ceaseless attack from the blizzard but Aldasair guides him in such an assured manner that he never worries for a second about whether they are on the right path.

If he has to be honest, he probably wouldn't care much if Aldasair was just dragging him down a cliff either.

_**2\. Casual hair braiding is a thing in Finneral** _

The second time is entirely a coincidence.

Bern is sitting on his bed, brushing his hair, the ends still a little damp. His hair clasps- most precious amongst them are the carved silver one that shows his status as the son of a king; the onyx one that shows he is a warrior who proved his mantle and the rose quartz one that shows he's a firstborn- are lying on the thick blanket, shining weakly under the dull winter light.

There is a knock.

He is half naked but that doesn't concern him much. No one cares about the amount of clothing you have on in Finneral other than yourself, and then only because people do not care for frostbite. His hair is unbound though, which makes him uncomfortable. The last time someone saw him without braids was back when he was twelve.

“Who is it?” he calls out.

“I-” The voice trails off but Bern already knows who it belongs to. He would've recognized that voice anywhere.

“Come in.”

Aldasair looks entirely windblown and nervous but his steps still carry him with ageless grace. “I was wondering if you knew-”

Bern raises his head absentmindedly and catches the exact moment Aldasair's eyes grow wide, his mouth falling open softly.

“Forgive me,” he says, looking studiously to the floor. “I wasn't aware you were....”

“Oh.” Bern never considered the possibility of people with such long lives minding trivial things like the amount of clothes someone has on, but apparently he's been wrong. He reaches for the tunic he left lying on the bed and quickly pulls it on. “There. Sorry. What did you want to ask me?”

Aldasair blinks owlishly, still not quite meeting his eyes. “Do you know this word for-Vintage tells me it's probably not a thing in any human language but I thought maybe yours might have it.”

“What was the meaning?”

“Your hair.”

Bern raises his eyebrows. “A word for my hair?”

“No, no.” This time he's sure Aldasair's face is slightly pink. “I...I think it's the first time I saw you without braids.”

You and everyone else, Bern doesn't say. It's quite the taboo, in fact. The braids and the clasps tells a lot about who their wearer is and this is how people understand which way to address someone and what to expect from them in certain situations without needing to ask. Only small children would have free flowing, unadorned hair. For adults, only the closest of those who are close to you would get to see your hair like that.

There is a certain flutter in his ribcage, an uncomfortable thing that reminds him he's doing something that's not suppose to be done but at the same time, he doesn't regret it. It feels right, somehow.

“I was just going to do that,” he explains, his hand draws a big circle in the air encompassing the clasps and the brush on his lap.

Aldasair's mouth tightens into a thin line and Bern worries for a second he's said something wrong. Inappropriate. He even thinks for a paranoia filled moment, that Aldasair actually knows about the hair taboo and he thinks Bern....

At the end of the tense silence he says “I can help, if you'd like.” Their eyes meet once more and Aldasair's are once again utterly devoid of aloofness. “I'm not the best at braids, though. Hest used to say my work was always wonky.”

“That would be nice.” His face feels warm now. Blushing. That's a thing he does now, apparently. Blushing and letting people see him without braids and also letting them touch his hair and help with the braids because why not? There is no one here but the two of them and the world might possibly end.

Aldasair silently sits behind him on the bed, perched at the very edge like a restless bird ready to fly away at the slightest fright. Bern avoids turning towards him just in case that might be the thing that spooks him away. Just slides the brush backwards until their fingertips touch over it and Aldasair snatches it away like he's been burned.

And then he starts to work.

It's a strange feeling. His parents used to brush his hair when he was too small to reach or care about tangles. It's been so long he barely remembered anything about the feeling of the bristles unexpectedly sliding through the strands, the slight pull on his scalp. Not that Aldasair pulls at all. He's being exteremely gentle again, as if Bern is not something solid made to last but something fragile beyond belief, and maybe he is, to Aldasair's timelessness. Maybe when he looks at humans he sees what Bern sees in babies, the air of newness surrounding them like a blanket, the way their skin is untouched by the elements and movement and time, the give of their muscle under thin skin. Something that can be so easily pulled apart. Something that needs to be held with gentleness beyond habit.

He can't be sure what to think about that. Does it mean he's chasing something indefinitely impossible? Someone who will never see him as a companionable partner?

The brush returns to the sheets once more and gentle, cold fingers starts sectioning his hair, trembling slightly from inexperience. He said _Hest used to say_. There is no way of knowing how long it's been, maybe years, maybe centuries. Maybe it was all before his great grandfather was even born.

Is he mad, to want this? To think he can be enough for someone like this?

There is a very light pull once Aldasair begins braiding.

“Tell me something,” Bern says after a while. The only noise in the room is the crackling of the fire and hair sliding over skin.

“Such as?”

“A story, maybe?” He tries to turn his head and cold fingertips come to rest on the side of his neck, stopping him. A fine shiver runs down the length of his spine.

“I don't remember many stories.”

“I'm not very picky.”

Aldasair sighs. He only begins telling a story after he ties the first braid with the strip of leather Bern hands over. It's very jumbled and told out of order, Aldasair wasn't lying about not remembering, so Bern cannot understand much from it other than it's rather sad but Aldasair's voice does calm him still. Not long after it ends, Aldasair finishes braiding and lets Bern inspect them in the small silver disc someone left on the table long ago. They are a little wonky, like he's been warned but there are seven, like he always had. Knowing Aldasair noticed warms him. The left side of his hair Aldasair left untouched. There might be braids on that side one day too, if he decides to bind himself to someone or becomes king or achieves things greater than his current accomplishments. A space for possibilities.

“Thank you,” he says, running his fingers over the braids once more.

“It was,” he says a word in their language and Bern's brow furrows. “That was why I came here,” Aldasair explains. “There is this word, an echo of who you've been at some point in the past. Like haunting yourself, maybe?” He looks at him with so much hope that Bern wants so come up with a word on the spot, just so he can give him that gift. “Vintage says most humans do not think of things like that, or notice, simply from the lack of time. But I thought maybe, some group of humans might've thought.”

“I'm afraid we don't have a word like that either, not that I know of.” He offers a smile hoping it will compensate his failure. “I might write to my father, if you'd like, so he can ask the elders.”

Aldasair nods and the edge of his lips curve up, in the smallest, most delicate arc. “It was a good haunting this time,” he says as farewell and then before Bern can finish convincing himself how bad of an idea gathering him in his arms would be, he's gone.

At dinner his friends have a few spare comments about the wonkiness of his braids, about how his hands are running out of practice, said in very suggestive tones and laughs. Instead of bantering back like usual, Bern just smiles.

Maybe it's not such a bad thing after all, to be seen as something that needs caring for.

_**3\. Casual borrowing of weapons is a thing in Finneral** _

Bern has two battle axes, twins. They were gifted to him on his twelfth birthday.

Before that, they belonged to his mother's family. His mother gifted one to his father during their courting, as is tradition, and they carried them until Bern, their first child, was born, then locked away to be given to him once he was of age. That was how it's done in Finneral, how it's always been done. For this reason, of course, giving weapons for a gift was considered quite a serious thing and even borrowing them out was seen as some sort of declaration of intent, unless done in extremely dire situations.

This is the exact thought going through Bern's head, when he holds out one of the twins to Aldasair.

Aldasair insists he's not a warrior but knows some of the basics, almost instinctually. His mother, he once told Bern in the passing, was a famed warrior. She showed him how to check if a sword was well balanced, if the quality of the metal was good. But that was all, before she was gone and Aldasair never really shared Tor's enthusiasm for weapons. He once enjoyed stories of their fame, he admitted, most of them forgotten now. But holding one and creating those stories never seemed like something he's enjoy doing.

Now he has to.

Aldasair sheaths the sword with great care and gently places it into the snow like someone would tuck a little child in. It looks priceless, adorned with glittering gems on the hilt and engravings on the blade, doubtless a sword of great fame and a long history. It also looks very, very out of place in Aldasair's grip, for some reason. Maybe it's the set of his shoulders that is far too tense. Bern's never preferred swords so he never spent too much time on them but even he knows your shoulders shouldn't look like they are about to snap out of their sockets when you slash.

“Try this,” he says like that's something he does every day. “Not everyone is built for swords. There are other weapons.”

Aldasair takes it from him almost automatically and just weighs it in his hand for a moment, adjusting his grip on different points of the hilt to find the best spot. Bern watches him with something close to fascination.

Was this what his mother felt, after she handed it over to his father? Like she gave up a piece of herself?

“It seems to me this would require more precision than a sword.”

“That might be true. But precision can be built as well. We have some time.”

“Not that much time. I'm already wasting way too much of it.”

“That is not your fault. You couldn't have known. Not all of us need to be warriors.”

Aldasair nods but his jaw is still tight. Bern wonders if it's regret or something else. They are a warrior race, after all. Famed for it. Loved for it. Feared for it. Despised for it.

Aldasair never picked up a weapon, he said so himself, even when they were locked in this city for years and years, even when he ran out of things to do. It feels like there is something buried there but he can't figure out what. Maybe the fear of the long shadow of a mother? Maybe the sense of everything being in vain? No more Rains, they thought, and no more life. But Tormalin still learned, and more than just the sword, if stories Bern keeps hearing around the fire were to be belived. And Aldasair stayed but not for Ygseril, unlike Lady Hestillion. He never goes to the Hall of Roots unless he is made to. There must be something more to it, something else

He tries to think what he would do if his god suddenly died and his people with it. But he can't. Stones do not live, so they cannot die. He cannot imagine what kind of trust it would take to tie your faith to something that can die, fade away. All that lives will die, sooner or later. And-

And maybe, that's why trying to gain Aldasair's love is a bad idea. Bern will be gone at an earlier stage of life than most of Aldasair's clothes, probably. Whatever he has to offer is temporary; his whole life, his heart.

Maybe Aldasair won't love him for the same reason he never picked up a sword. Because there is no point to it at all, nothing they can offer to him. But, Bern thinks numbly, the Ninth Rain did come. Some things might change in a way that would make Bern seem worthwhile too, no matter how ephemeral he is in every way.

“I'm sorry,” Aldasair says out of nowhere, evidently taking his silence the wrong way. “I know it must be frustrating for you. Tor keeps saying I should've went with him to learn the ways of the sword but-”

“It's not,” he says very quickly, and then, when faced with his bafflement adds, “frustrating. You're learning. You think I was born knowing how to fight, or was Tormalin? It takes time. And we wanted to learn, which wasn't the case for you. I'm sorry you don't get a choice.”

“I shouldn't have been given one, according to Hest.” He laughs, short and mirthless. Bern wanted to see him laugh since day one but this feels terribly wrong.

“That's unkind of her.” His brow furrows. “She doesn't know how to fight either, from what I gathered during our conversations. Am I wrong?”

“No, but Hest is, well, she raised herself to be the Root-Father's caretaker. I've always been purposeless.”

“Ygseril is dead,” he says, trying to not sound cruel. It's Aldasair's god too, after all. But it's true, still. Not much purpose in caring for a dead thing, while having such little care for what is living. Bern didn't have much time with Lady Hestillion but he knows deep down she is not the kind to have a lot of warmth to share. And that's all Aldasair had for so long, just her and a dead god and a hundred dying strangers.

“He's _dying_ ,” Aldasair corrects in a hushed tone. “There is a difference.”

Bern doesn't really know what made it so painful to hear. Maybe the way he said it so knowingly. Like he wasn't talking about Ygseril at all. But of course, this is a kingdom of the slowly dying and Aldasair is a part of it. He's been waiting for death here longer than Bern has been alive.

Suddenly Bern hates the vulnerability he can see, all the soft, corroded spots in Aldasair's elaborate armor that are open to Lady Hestillion, to Tormalin, to Ygseril, even to all these humans he doesn't even know. He wants to gift Aldasair a weapon, something that would make him strong, a reminder that he was neither dead nor dying. The Twins are not enough. A sword wouldn't be enough either. Nothing with a sharp edge would suffice.

“You are our caretaker,” he tries. “Our guide. The one we go to with questions or requests. Everyone talks of your kindness.”

Aldasair looks into his eyes and they are turbulent, filled with emotions that are strangers to Bern. His lips shapes unsaid words but in the end he gives up. Bern tries to not feel disappointed for not getting to hear what he had to say.

And then, it starts snowing again.

Aldasair strokes the glinting metal for a second with his thumb before returning it. There are snowflakes caught on his eyelashes and this time it's him who looks like something to be cared for, something to be sheltered. Bern wants to hold him so much, the feeling almost comes alive within his chest, kicking and tearing and screaming.

They silently walk back inside, side by side. Bern thinks he might be imagining it, but the axe Aldasair touched feels warm at his side

_One day I will give it to you_ , he thinks. Warmth, temporary it may be, is still vital to those who are not dead, or dying.

_**4\. Casually getting high and maybe making out is TOTALLY a thing in Finneral** _

This one makes him completely and utterly ashamed of himself but he's getting desperate at this point. Out of options, maybe. Their time is ever dwindling. And Bern doesn't necessarily mind dying in battle, if it can potentially save the rest of the world but at the same time, there are things he would rather not die before doing, and kissing Aldasair is definitely one of those things.

One day, when he feels trapped and out of sorts, he goes into the wild plots surrounding the city and looks for peaceworth. He manages to find some, or at least something looks pretty much like it and as he walks back to the city, he realises it might help with more than just calming his mind.

It's a terrible, terrible idea and he _should_ be ashamed. He is not a fifteen year old who is ready to tell any ridiculous lie to have a moment alone with someone but at the same time, there is a small part of him that wonders, _what if_. Aldasair is so tightly wound, so serious. Maybe he too would appreciate some peace of mind. It might work on Eborans as well. And it's not like Bern wishes to force him into anything. He'll just leave a suggestion and let Aldasair decide what he wishes to do with it. Yes, that is honorable still, even though there is some deceit involved. Or that's what he tells himself and knows he wouldn't dare try this defence before anyone but himself.

He finds Aldasair in an orchard and explains the whole thing.

“In Finneral, we have shamans, they burn this to quiet your mind,” he says (this part is true), “and to make it malleable.” (This part is definitely not true to the point he'll need to ask for forgiveness of the stones to not get entirely disowned by them.)“We will burn it. I wanted you here with me because if someone found me under the influence, they could've made me do absolutely anything. But I trust you. And maybe you can have some fun asking me to do things. That's what we do.” (Just ask for whatever, he thinks. He is uncharacteristically greedy in love, it seems. He wants any part Aldasair would be willing to give.)

Aldasair looks rather confused but he agrees to sit with him in the middle of the snowy orchard and watches as a purple smoke rises from the little herb. It was the right one, after all because it does put Bern's mind at ease. Silences the thousand voices speaking at the same time endlessly. In blissful calmness, he stares at Aldasair's face, the terrifying beauty of it and the mellowing familiarity. The coldness of his blood colored eyes, paleness of his lips and the warmth his gaze radiates even under all the clouds who live there continuously. Bern thinks if he ever manages to part those clouds, the warmth of it will rival the sun's.

“Won't you ask for anything?”

Aldasair's eyes trail over his entire body like he's seeing him for the very first time. It's still thrilling but deeper, somehow, half buried. The calmness dampens everything like the heavy curtain of snow. It feels like he has a thousand years to live, to experience everything. There is no rush.

His heart still stutters a bit however, when Aldasair tentatively raises a hand to his face.

His knuckles graze the edge of Bern's cheekbone, follow the trail down to his jaw. When his jaw curves to meet with his throat, Aldasair's hand falls away. Even dampened, the want for it to return is absurdly powerful within Bern.

As embarrasing as it is to admit, he makes a little whining sound.

Aldasair laughs, a short, high note, more surprise than amusement.

“That wasn't a request,” Bern says, trying very hard to not sound petulant.

“You just looked-” The smile falls from his face and Bern would do anything to bring it back. “You look more touchable, like this. More...” Another word in their language. Bern knows without asking that Aldasair won't tell him what it means. He almost never does.

“I don't mind being touched,” he says. If it wasn't for the smoke, his heart would be trying to escape his chest at that point but he can't be not calm. Everything seems normal and sayable, when you are this calm.

Aldasair worries his lip for a second with his teeth and it's so distracting to Bern's absurdly calm mind that he doesn't notice the hand that covers his own.

“For my human eyes?” He sounds disproportionately amused even to his own ears. Aldasair does smile, a tiny, elusive thing but he doesn't look amused.

“So you won't get lost,” he says and Bern will try to decipher if he was just continuing the joke or meant something else entirely once he is not calm on a level bordering insanity. For now, he just enjoys the give of snow under him, the faint sunlight above him, the weight of Aldasair's hand on his.

It's not a kiss, but in some ways it's infinitely better.

_**+1 casually seeking out someone's company is a thing Aldasair does** _

The day is dark from the start. It's almost like the dawn forgot to break. Aldasair stares out of his window to the seemingly endless expanse of snowy fields and he feels whatever it was that come back alive when the humans arrive wilting once more. He wouldn't mind before but now it's scares him so much and he doesn't want to be alone.

No, not only that. Not only the nebulous concept of not wanting to be alone. He wants company, and he specifically wants Bern's company.

His face warms up and it makes the rest of his body feel even colder. The human confuses Aldasair even more than his fellows. The way he moves, the way he cares, the way he keeps seeking out Aldasair, they are all so strange to Aldasair. Who can enjoy his company? Even _he_ is sick of his own company, would leave it in a heartbeat, without a second thought. Yet Bern keeps coming back, keeps talking to him, keeps asking his confusing questions and giving answers Aldasair's cloudy mind cannot wrap itself around. And he listens. He fixed an entire tower overnight, gave him the little war beast charms with a gentleness like they were precious to him, somehow. None of it makes sense to Aldasair, not at all. He cannot deny thinking Bern dear, though. His voice when he's talking to him, the softness of his hair, his patience. There are so many pieces and whatever they add up to is even more elusive than whatever he keeps trying to see with tarla cards.

A walk will do him good, he decides.

The snow is still very high and the cold is bristling but fresh air does make him feel a little better. Snow crunches under his boots. A few birds draw circles overhead.

He sees him before he even enters the clearing.

Bern is standing near the a small, wayward stream. How is it still not frozen over, Aldasair cannot figure out. Tiny pieces of ice glitter on the bank.

“No fish lives in there,” he says, just because it's something to say. Bern turns towards him slowly, without hurry. Even in the near dark, his hair shines like a beacon. Aldasair feels this childish urge to touch it again.

“That's smart of the fish.” He's smiling. “I wouldn't live in this if I were them. There are lusher dried fountains within the city walls.”

“It still runs, though,” Aldasair points out.

His smile softens somehow. That's the only description Aldasair can find. “That's true.” And then he adds “Stones, it's dark today. What are you doing outside?”

“I was looking for you.”

“Is there something I can help with?”

“No, no, I just...” He takes a deep breath. “I was just bored. I though you might be too.”

“For a matter of fact, I am.”

“I could teach you a card game?”

“There is a fire in my room. Or should be. There was one, when I left.”

“Alright.” Aldasair tries to act like this isn't terrifying and thrilling. Like he wasn't affected by how easily he said yes. “I'll go get my cards and meet you in your room.”

“I'll bring the tea,” Bern says. “I know you can't do without.”

Does he ever tire, Aldasair thinks as his heart thumps in his throat, of smiling like that? So bright and warm and full of life. And he remembered the tea. What else does he remember? Does it terrify him the same way it does Aldasair whenever he recalls a small think that made Bern smile, how he was before Bern came over to make this dying city seem brighter, somehow? No incredibly well made, beautifully decorated lantern will do for him now that he got reacquainted with sunlight.

Will he get to keep it? Keep _him_?

“I'll wait for you then,” Bern says before starting towards the palace. His hand brushes Aldasair's as he passes, gently, lightly.

Somehow, it's enough to warm Aldasair's hand for the first time in years, even with the icy wind.


End file.
